


Three Monkeys

by Llamadramaphan



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Child Abuse, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Priest Kink, Smut, Underage - Freeform, Underage Sex, come burn with me, this one is for all the sinners out there, y'all know who you are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:00:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8521156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llamadramaphan/pseuds/Llamadramaphan
Summary: Jensen needs them to be pure.And Jay is the purest there could ever be.





	

He sees no evil.  
Those kaleidoscope eyes of his, like sunflowers and deep blue seas, they do not see whatever shadow has been lurking behind the edge of the sofa, his ship he sails to far lands. Far lands on a sometimes static screen, with the audio crooked and his back hurting from the many positions in which his tiny tiny body has put itself in order to not fall asleep. In order to not miss a single thing displayed on that magical screen, the magical screen his Daddy got only a week ago, when he had a good day at work and a smile on his face that makes other Moms coo and grab the little boy’s cheeks, stating that he looks just like his Dad. Sure, that day must have been ruined when Mommy came in, screaming, horrified upon seeing the magical screen in the middle of the living room, like the Epicentre of a tornado of discarded cereal boxes and dirty clothes.  
Sure, it must have been pretty discouraging (little Jay had recently learned that word in school. It rolled of his tongue with ease and it made him giggle when Daddy praised him for being able to say such hard words like that) when Mommy got the bat from the cupboard and yielded it at him, knuckles white and lips red like the wine she drinks when she thinks little Jay has gone to sleep. Jay still remembers that day, remembers how Daddy kept screaming ‘not in front of him, you nutcase’! He didn’t say nutcase. He said a word which, upon repeating it once at school, Jay got in big trouble for. Since then, he tends to swap those with nicer ones – such words like nutcase. Nutcase is his favourite word to put instead of that ugly W one – Jay’s never liked the W much anyway, it was hard for him to write it when the teacher assigned them to last semester.  
And so nutcase it was.  
Nutcase, nutcase, nutcase!  
Over and over, like the songs they sing in choir at that special place they call church, even though sometimes, Mommy likes to put a bad word in front of it. Jay believes that to be pointless – why dirty something so great, something so holy (he’s also grown obsessed with this word) with expressions like that? When he told his Mommy this, she laughed. With her head thrown back so that Jay could only see her dirt-brown roots from where he was standing, with her hands curled around her stomach as if to hold it tight. Jay smiled then, and that’s when the pastor came out, ruffled his hair.  
The pastor is a nice man.  
Never uses bad language, probably never has in his whole life, at least that’s what seems plausible to little Jay. When he thinks of this man, of this wonderful amazing man, he can’t possible picture him saying those things – he simply can’t. He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want that nice man to become dirty like his parents have (at least that’s what Brianna’s Mom once told him. Jay also remembers that incident as if it had been yesterday. Even though it wasn’t. Brianna and her Mom moved away last summer, because her Dad got a better job and they could afford to ‘live in a better neighbourhood now’) Sometimes, Jay catches his Mommy staring at the pastor. She’s staring at him the way those women on the magical screen sometimes do (he knows that it’s actually called TV – but that just sounds so boring, doesn’t it?) And when Daddy caught her staring, he got that look on his face as if he had just bitten into a lemon. Jay knows what that feels like, because he did it once too.  
Has the pastor ever taken a bite out of a lemon?  
Jay can’t imagine.  
It actually causes him to giggle to himself silently, the picture of that man’s wonderful face scrunching up like that. As soon as his laughter has died out though, Jay wishes he hadn’t giggled in the first place – it makes the silence of the living room seem even more deafening. He takes the TV remote (magical screen remote) and turns up the volume with the right button – Daddy showed him which one.  
Right now he’s asking himself where Mommy and Daddy are. If they’re gonna come back.  
Oh no, that’s a bad thought, isn’t it?  
The pastor once told him so. Jay can still remember this vividly, since it happened about two days ago, when they were at church again. Can remember how the pastor patted his head the way he likes, after helping him draw that cartoon character from that one show on the magical screen that he adores. After Jay told him, like he always does, that his parents will be out tonight, an answer to the question of ‘what are your plans for this beautiful Sunday?’, the pastor had looked at him, big, massive, green eyes blinking all confusedly and Jay had just shrugged whilst filling in the clown’s red smile. Red lips like Mommy.  
But where do they go? the amazing man had asked.  
I don’t know. little Jay had answered.  
And then he shrugged.  
And then he bit his bottom lip, looking up at the pastor with confessions written out in his little eyes which he sometimes closes for long periods of time in order to deal with all the other children. The loud children. The ones that tug on your hair and call you a girl and ask you why your parents won’t pick you up from day care.  
The pastor had probably not been such a kid.  
But when he looked down at Jay the way he did, he did manage to let the same feeling of anxiety blossom within Jays chest, which almost ached by the time the silence between them had stretched into something big, something long and icky.  
“Well, that’s too bad. I’m sure they’ve got lots of work. They’d love to hang out with you more.”  
“Ah.” Jay shrugs again. There’s something else in his chest now, confined by china ribs and a cherry red heart, beating out of tune as Jay looks up at the pastor. He wants to say something. Say something bad. “They don’t care about me.” Is what he said, with big eyes and a dark undertone, hiding behind the roll of his tongue. And when he finally met the Pastors gaze again, he already felt the ghost of fingerprints on his cheeks, waited for them almost eagerly – instead, he received the same brooding stare. He received the same look from those same grass green eyes, received a nervous tug at a full bottom lip from the amazing man sat next to him. Then, he received a pat on the shoulder, followed by a rub. It was a nice rub. The kind you get after scoring at the local kid’s football game, the kind that you get when Daddy asks you to not tell Mommy and finds out that you did what he wanted. That kind of rub.  
But for some reason, it almost nicer than when Daddy did it. Daddy never did them anymore, anyway. Said Jay was too old now, Jay with the milk teeth and button nose.  
“Well, even though I think that that’s not true – I care about you Jay. I really do.”  
And the question ‘you really do? Do you really’ is burning on Jays tongue, but it can stay there, afire, for all he cares. He just nods. Shyly. Like he’s still waiting for those fingerprints on his baby cheeks.  
When the front door opens with a creek, he can feel them again as well.  
Can feel the hit long before it comes, can hear the voice long before it shouts at him to turn to ‘Turn of that (bad word) TV already!’.  
But he can’t see.  
He can never see.  
Because sure, Mommy shouts. And sure, her hands hurt more than they soothe nowadays.  
But his eyes, those kaleidoscope eyes of his which Mommy and Daddy always fight about whom he inherited them from, those cannot see the woman standing in the doorway, then in front of him, then by the sofa as she turns of the magical screen with a furious look in her eye.  
He can’t see that woman.  
If he were to see anything, little Jay, it would be the pastor.  
The wonderful man that invited him to his house two days ago, said that he could come by whenever his parents were too busy.  
As Jay tugs himself into bed, he thinks that they’re probably going to be busy again pretty soon.  
Right?

 

He hears no evil.  
What he hears is ‘Come right in champ, I’ll be with you in a second’, what he hears is ‘I really enjoyed this Jay, I hope you did too?’ what he hears is ‘ah there you are Jay. How’s it going with your parents, huh champ?’. What he hears is a soft voice, words spoken with all the kindness Jay never knew before meeting the pastor, who now wants to be called ‘just Jensen, champ’. He always calls him that.  
Like he’s his son.  
Like he’s a champion of some important thing instead of the sofa which he inhabits during most times of the day and night.  
It makes Jay’s broken heart strings sing, sing in a way that suggests that maybe, just maybe, they aren’t as broken as he thought they were.  
He once asked Jensen about this as well. Asked, if people could be broken inside. Like a vase, he clarified, when Jensen’s eyebrow was raised in question, in ‘I don’t understand, you’re speaking nonsense, kid’. Like a vase? Yep. I don’t…. he’d shrugged, that shirt which he wears all the time when Jay comes over and he’s not in church, sinking low to reveal powdered collarbone. Powdered, because that’s what Mommy called it when she brought Jay to Jensen’s house once, just that one time. Powdered, like the rest of Jensen’s face. Jay prefers to call it ‘angel dust’, because that’s what he heard one of the choir girls say once when they were snickering behind Jensen’s turned back. Snickering about those collar bones, about those hands, about that smile.  
They don’t know that Jay gets to see all that, interact with all that, way more than they do. They’re just the choir girls.  
Expendable in every way.  
But when Jay once said that, with a little giggle, to make light of that last borderline bad word, Jensen had stopped the car they were driving very abruptly, the way Mommy or Daddy sometimes did and he looked over and asked Jay to repeat what he just said. Repeat it. Again. No, again. And Jay did, did it until his vision was fuzzy and his cheeks wet and that’s when Jensen finally stopped. He reached out, reached out with those fingers that the choir girls will never be able to feel anywhere apart from in their fantasies, and he tipped Jay’s chin up. The way Daddy sometimes used to do, when Jay was sobbing after having busted open his knee. That way that makes Jay’s broken heart strings flutter.  
And Jensen said sorry.  
Didn’t mean to make you cry, little Jay.  
It's okay.  
No I, no I’m really sorry. But your comment about the girls…never say that again, okay?  
Okay.  
The finger remained where it was.  
Come on, don’t give me that look. You want some ice cream? So I can say sorry?  
Yeah…I guess…  
Then the finger slipped.  
Or can I show you something else? Something else I can say sorry with?  
Jay didn’t know what to say.  
He'd heard that Jensen had taken the entire choir out on ice cream once, because they sang so well during Christmas Eve Service. Does he really want the ice cream, then?  
Well what…what is that other thing? He asks, tiny lips pressing together tightly, as if he wanted to swallow the words that had already left his mouth.  
But then Jensen smiles.  
And he has such an amazing smile.  
Better than Daddy’s, better than Jays own which he sometimes demonstrates when in front of any reflecting surface (someone once commented on the frown he constantly wore, and it somehow seemed to have stuck with him).  
It’s a smile full of teeth and stretched lips, a smile full of warmth and ‘come inside champ, I’ve got that movie you once told me about’.  
And then Jensen leans over.  
Slow, like he fears Jay might push him away if he dares hovering over the passenger’s side for too long. Why? Doesn’t he know that Jay would never dare to?  
And when Jensen says ‘this is something people do to make each other happy, I’m just going to make you happy, little jay’ he hears ‘I’ll take care of you’. And so Jay nods his head, a fragment of what the movement would have normally been, but with Jensen’s face so close to his, he doesn’t dare to move too much.  
To breathe too much.  
And so he simply doesn’t.  
And when Jensen does the thing, he can’t breathe anyway.  
Jay opens his lips, thinks that it’s what he should do because Jensen has, too, and when Jensen pushes his tongue over Jay’s, he doesn’t even think that it’s disgusting – that thought is gone as soon as his lids flutter open (like butterfly wings) and he sees Jensen before him, so close, that he can’t possibly see him properly. He’s got his eyes closed, long lashes (much longer than Jay’s or Daddy’s or Mommy’s) almost touching angel kissed cheeks.  
He whimpers when Jensen puts his hand on his shoulder, whimpers a bit louder when he can’t possibly keep up with the rhythm Jensen has set anymore, whimpers the loudest when his mouth is released again and his lips are spit-shiny and quivering. Just like Jensen’s. Just that Jensen’s look more beautiful. They look like flowers, beautiful pink flowers someone rolled up until they matched those disgusting things normal people have in their faces – and then Jensen smiles again and Jay’s stomach flips, flips at the sheer happiness radiating in his face and filling out the entire confinement of Jensen’s car.  
Did that make you happy? It made me very happy, Jay.  
And Jay nods.  
He hears no evil.  
Doesn’t hear the bad words that singer screams on the radio they listen to on their way to Jay’s house, doesn’t hear the loud thud thud thud of his own feet, dragging against asphalt as he makes his way to the front door. He can’t possibly hear the loud snoring coming from the sofa, can’t hear the gunshots and action music on the magical screen – what he hears, when his cheek has already touched his pillow and sunk into it blissfully, is the sound of his own breathing, which just has to sound similar to Jensen’s breathing.  
It has to.  
When he sees him again, which is only two days later since Jensen has offered to tutor Jay now, he presses his head onto the pastor’s chest, listens carefully for a few moments. Then he remembers and his head shoots up, eyes widened and lips hanging open as he looks for a sign of annoyance or resent in Jensen’s grass green eyes. He finds nothing. Nothing but warmth, which then takes turns in spreading in his chest and belly, until it’s seemingly filled up every fibre of Jay’s being. He then scrambles to get away, get back to the maths homework they’ve been sitting on for quite a while now – that’s when Jensen’s grip tightens on his hip, causing him to flop down into the pastor’s lap.  
He’s smiling.  
And then he’s leaning in.  
Jay doesn’t pull away.  
How could he?  
Even if there was no warm hand, resting on his hip, there’d still be that warmth inside his body, that warmth that would (and he’s sure of that) shatter into a million pieces if he dared to ever pull away for too long. And so he stays, stays in the grip as Jensen’s tongue stays in his mouth – he whimpers in response to the moan that escapes Jensen as Jay attentively moves his own tongue as well, trying to somehow work with and simultaneously against the pastor.  
“Oh Jay…oh little Jay…”  
And Jay just presses in closer, has his tongue attempt to perform the same things Jensen did, the things that made his belly tighten every time.  
And when he leaves to get the bus home, Jensen kisses him goodbye.  
Like that scene in that one movie, that scene where the wife kissed her husband goodbye.  
Jay smiles.  
He hears no evil.  
Why would he need to?  
Jensen’s lips are the only music he’s decided to listen to for the rest of his life.

 

He speaks no evil.

Not even when Jensen is pressed into him, fingers pulling him wide, causing the air of Jensen’s living room to touch places that should rather be left untouched.  
Even when Jensen’s lips engulf that special place down there, where Jay heard that he’ll be starting to grow hair soon. Better later than sooner, since Jensen likes playing with the taut skin there, likes to pull it and lick it with that tongue that has found its home in Jay’s little, whimpering and gasping mouth.  
No bad word slips from his lips when Jensen’s mouth closes around another special part of him, one of the most special ones, as Jensen proposed when he first slipped out of his chair to strip Jay of his old blue jeans and stained briefs.  
Tight, white, briefs.  
And Jensen, or Jen as he wants to be called now, speaks no evil as well.  
Even when he presses Jay’s head down in the Confession cabinet, even when he has Jay’s little tongue slipping alongside his very own special place.  
He won’t.  
Instead, he’ll call Jay pure.  
Oh, so pure.  
When Jay gets on all fours, shivering from the cold that engulfs his bare skin, he’ll whisper the words alongside his back, bite it into the flesh of his butt and circle it onto that special place for so long, until it slips inside. And when Jay bites the pillows and blinks so many times that he thinks he’ll lose his sight, trying to get rid of the tears slipping down his cheeks, he’ll call him ‘the purest there’ll ever be’. He’ll call him ‘my pure little baby’.  
He’ll kiss his lips and lick his special place and whisper ‘pure’ into every single surface he can find, into every inch of skin he can pull, grab, lick.  
He never says fuck.  
Daddy always does. When Jay asked him, little eyes opened so wide and doing more than enough to make him look like the innocent little thing he’s supposed to be perceived as, he even laughed. Patted Jay’s head and told him that that’s called fucking and that it’s pretty great. And that he should wait a few years until he tries it. Jay went to bed that night, thinking that Daddy has no idea what he’s talking about.  
Because Jen always tells him that he’s old enough.  
Never even mentions his age, to be precise.  
There’s more to you than that, he’d say, mouth engulfed around one of Jay’s nipples, hungrily biting and tugging at the raw skin, angry red buds standing up in the air proudly once he releases them again.  
He smiles. That wonderful, beautiful smile.  
All teeth and ‘you’re my pure little boy’.  
All ‘I’m going to try something new today so just lay there and trust me’.  
All ‘One day, we could maybe talk your parents into letting you live with me. We’d be a proper Husband and wife, as you once said’.  
All future plans and loving goodnight stories, all ‘I’ll be there’s’ and prompting fingers that push inside Jay, push deep enough to suggest that they’re trying to find something in there.  
But he’s already found everything he needs, hasn’t he?  
Jay’s heart, that he’s found.  
And those broken strings which Jay sometimes silently attempted to carry out tunes on when on his own are now fully mended, back to full health. Better than they were before. Better than Mommy or Daddy could have ever made them.  
They’re Jen’s.  
Jay in his entirety is his’.  
Every inch.  
Even the ears that won’t hear and the eyes that won’t see, even the mouth that won’t speak. It doesn’t matter. What more could there possibly be for Jay to see in the world, if not that set of plush lips and suggesting hands. That special place which he’s learned how to take care of so perfectly by now.  
There’s nothing more.  
And if there is, then Jay wants none of it.  
And so he doesn’t speak to the stupid (expendable) choir girls, doesn’t let one syllable escape his lips at school – it doesn’t matter. Because there’s Jen’s car in the parking lot, waiting to pick him up, because there’s Jen’s mouth, waiting to be kissed, because there’s Jen’s hand, wanting to explore.  
He loves Jen.  
And when Jen explained his job as a pastor to him, preached about his devotion to god and everything holy and pure, Jay nodded his head in understanding, for he knew that if Jen was a man of God, he was a man of Jen’s.  
Devoted.  
With every inch of his body.  
A body that cannot hear, or see, or speak.

But a pure body nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello there fellow sinners - which, if you enjoyed this, you are btw.  
> I'm actually kinda proud of myself for finishing this fic, since it's almost midnight and I should have actually rather studied than sit there and write borderline child pornography for an hour. (Which, btw, I hope it's clear to everyone that I do NOT condone any of the actions taking place in this fic.) 
> 
> If you don't know what the three monkeys are (except for emojis), they're a metaphor for basically 'turning a blind eye'.  
> I actually kinda got the idea for this fic from my dad who's got them tattooed...okay, that's disturbing.
> 
> Anway, comments are the best thing ever and I hope y'all have a great day/night.


End file.
